


Pillow Talk

by LadyAescwyn



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1958802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAescwyn/pseuds/LadyAescwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen learns a little about Dalish culture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Talk

Disclaimer: I’m not sure if I need this, but it never hurts… Dragon Age does not belong to me.

 

“Ma… arlas.” The husky timbre of Cullen’s voice cut across the comfortable hush of the room as he looked down at the elven woman in his arms.  


A quickly stifled giggle broke the quiet spell.  


At his surprised look, Cullen’s lover schooled her grin into an apologetic smile, “It’s Ma’arlath.” She enunciated slowly before brushing her lips against the scar on his upper lip. “But I understood. And I love you too.”  


“Ma’arlath.” The man repeated carefully, his pronunciation perfect this time. His heart skipped a beat or two at the delighted smile on the Lady Inquisitor’s lips. His gaze drifted from her lips to her eyes and landed, as it often did on the bold lines tattooed across her forehead.  


The woman stilled and watched him quietly for a few moments. When she spoke, her tone was curious, “Do you find them very strange?”  


At his confused look, she clarified, pausing only a moment to find the right word, “My Vallaslin… um… tattoos. Do you find them odd?”  


The poor man looked like a startled deer, not something that could be said often of the warrior. He frowned a bit and spoke slowly, as though he were verbally crossing a minefield, “Yes… but only because it is not something I have seen very often. At all. On humans. I don’t mean to offend.” He amended quickly, “They are beautiful.”  


The Inquisitor beamed, “No offense taken.” Her nose wrinkled in amusement and she poked a finger into that ticklish spot between his ribs, “I appreciate the honesty.”  


A surprised laugh escaped Cullen’s lips and he wiggled away from the evil woman’s fingers, before doing the only thing he could think of to stop her. A large hand cupped the back of her neck and pulled her lips up to meet his, effectively stilling her.  


When they pulled apart, he ran a finger along the line of her jaw. It occurred to her that he had never actually touched her vallaslin. Oh, perhaps he had brushed them once or twice when they had gotten a little more… passionate, but he had never endeavored to actually touch them. She found herself disappointed that he had yet to grasp her face and really, intensely kiss her.  


Well, that just wouldn’t do.  


“You can touch them, you know.”  


Cullen hesitated, one hand near, but not touching her cheek, “I thought it might be rude.”  


Amusement lit her eyes, “Considering where else your hands have been, it would be rude NOT to touch them!” She pressed her cheek into his palm and her voice fell to just above a whisper, but he understood every word, “I am yours. All of me.”  


Silence fell on the room once more as the human brushed the tip of a calloused thumb along the edge of one of the dark lines. A thoughtful frown furrowed his brows; he’d once seen a Templar recruit, a grown man, weep like a child while having a sword of mercy emblazoned on his ribs. “Did they hurt?”  


“Yes.” Was the simple reply.  


Large eyes, dark in the light of the dying fire, drifted shut. The Dalish woman’s chest rose and fell slowly. Purposefully. The memories came to her as vividly as the day they had occurred.  


In her 17th summer, the Keeper had declared that her time had come; a full year before most other da’len. She had been sent out into the forest with nothing. There she meditated and contemplated the history and struggles of her people. She had tasted a little of their hunger and thirst. Songs of comfort died quickly on her lips as she endured the quiet loneliness as well.  


On her return to the clan, she bathed and her body was purified. Her hair was shorn. All in utter silence. Then, at sundown she entered the Keeper’s aravel.  


The tapping was what she remembered most clearly and, of course, the pain. Tap. Tap. Tap. Over and over the Keeper tapped the tools, thrusting the ink deep beneath her skin. Tap. Tap. Tap. The Keeper pushed her to the edge of sanity as he put down bold, thick lines that would remain dark, even after many years and the fading of other vallaslin. Tap. Tap. Tap. Until her skull throbbed with every thought and she was certain the skin had been torn from her face.  


But she endured.  


Suledin.  


Though her traitorous body trembled from the pain and fatigue and she wanted nothing more than to turn her face into her mother’s skirts and sob, no sound passed her lips. She remained impassive.  


She was stone.  


At dawn, she emerged from the aravel and was welcomed into the waiting arms of her clan. It was the proudest moment of her life.  


“My teeth ached and my hands shook for days afterward, but that is the purpose of the blood writing. If we are to understand the Elvhen, if we are to understand ourselves, we must face the pain. We must endure.” Her voice was soft, but there was an undercurrent of steel conviction.  


Cullen listened in silence, mulling over her words. Hazel eyes traveled over her face and gentle, calloused fingers followed, tracing the paths of the vallaslin. He drank in every inch of her as though committing the moment to memory. His fingers followed the twisting pathways to her hairline and he drew a breath before asking, “Do they mean anything in particular?”  


She tore her gaze from his and there was a moment of hesitation before she spoke again. When she did, her tone was careful, guarded, “They symbolize my dedication to the goddess Andruil.” She did not elaborate further.  


He felt her stiffen in his arms and her face had gone coolly blank. It was such a turn around that he found himself speechless. She was usually so warm and open; anyone could read her like a book. A child’s book even. Confusion knit his features; she was always so willing to talk about the Dalish. Her people. Their language. Their customs…  


Oh.  


She never spoke of their gods.  


Their heathen gods.  


Then he understood. He was human. Andrastian. A Templar. She was elven. Dalish. A mage. No wonder she hesitated when speaking of her Creators. No wonder she was looking at him as though she half expected him to smite her.  


But he’d thought they were past all of that.  


Slowly. Carefully, he wove his fingers into her hair. He deliberately looked her in the eye, not saying a word before gently, reverently pressing his lips to her forehead. To her vallaslin. His grip around her waist tightened and he hoped she understood.  


She did.


End file.
